certain monarch, when, after a victorious engagement, he surveyed the field of battle, and beheld the multitudes of his troops lying dead before him, was heard to cry out, ‘Another such victory, and I am undone.' We have read also of a little band of devoted warriors making a last stand against the invaders of their country; at every moment performing prodigies of valour; at last they are overwhelmed. Now are

these images of the Christian warfare? Do we find at every moment of our struggle against the enemy of our souls, our strength diminished, our resources cut off, and our only consolation, that we fall in a contest where victory is impossible? in a word, that divine grace supplies us with weapons and courage to meet our enemy, but not with strength to overcome them? On the contrary, our temptations are not only not surprising, they are not insurmountable. They are not only such as we might reasonably be prepared for; they are such as we can, through divine grace, be able to overcome. This is the subject of our present discourse. I. First, then, our temptations are not in

surmountable in their own nature. The truth of this is demonstrated by a reference to facts and to experience.

1. True religion is not merely a righteous principle: it is a character which must be gradually formed in our mind and conduct. It is not by the mere perception and belief of divine truth, it is not by books or sermons, that we are transformed into that resemblance to the Son of God, which is to qualify us for heaven, and render us capable of eternal happiness and tranquillity. The school of Christ is a school of labour and suffering. By a course of persevering obedience and patience, it is that we become united in all our affections and habits to our Creator. It is by resisting evil we acquire a rooted preference for goodness and purity; and by enduring sorrow and temptation, we are gradually brought, to a real and constant delight in the anticipation of the joys of that world, on which we are commanded to set our affections. Habits of piety are formed like all other habits, by reiteration, by action, by endurance.

There is, however, one most remarkable

and most consoling difference between the constitution of our bodily habits, and of the habits of Christian piety. We know that our bodily powers may be very greatly increased by habit. By exercise, the limbs and organs acquire strength and expertness. The arm learns to raise a load it was once unable to move: the ear, to distinguish the most minute variations of sound; the eye, to discern the smallest objects with surprising quickness and precision. But there is a limit to which this improvement soon arrives. The strong and muscular limb becomes enfeebled by the exertion of its own powers, and the delicate organ perishes in the very moment of perfection. The ear refuses to hear the sounds it once delighted in, and the eye is covered with a dimness that cannot be pierced. But, blessed be God! He has constituted our spirits very differently, even if He were not at hand continually to restore and invigorate their powers.

It is highly important in this part of our subject to observe, that we do not come into this world in a natural, but in an un

natural state.

The word nature is commonly used to express the helpless and depraved condition of fallen man, destitute of divine grace and supernatural assistance. It is not in this sense that I call our present state unnatural. What I mean is, that the fall of our first parents has not restored us to a state of nature, but has depraved our nature; in other words, has brought us into an unnatural condition. If any one is not prepared to assent to this, let him consider whether it can be natural to any creature, that is, whether it can be the result of his original constitution, to hate and distrust his Creator. God cannot be the author of evil: He cannot be the contriver of a nature wholly opposed to His own purity, and truth, and goodness. But besides this, the unhappiness and disquietude which we suffer from the contradictory nature of our particular passions and affections, plainly show, that our constitution is out of order; because, without doing violence to some, and in turn, perhaps, to all of them, we cannot secure our highest and most lasting interests. Nor is our present condi

tion destitute of other, and perhaps plainer proofs, that we are in an unnatural state. Not to insist on the irrefragable fact, that man, in whatever degree of ignorance and barbarism, bears manifest marks and tokens of being a religious being, and, consequently, that it is irreligion, and not religion which is to be accounted for, as a deviation from his original constitution; it is impossible for any man to observe the workings of his own mind, without being convinced that he is a conscientious being also. In other words, we perceive, not merely the existence of a faculty, which passes judgment on our thoughts, and words, and conduct; but that this judgment is given with the authority of a judge and a superior: and that if it were not for the force of our particular passions, our whole character would be the result of a constant and unvarying submission to this judicial faculty, which we call conscience. Now it is plain, that the authority with which we find conscience invested, is designed not for the destruction, but for the renovation and perfection of our nature, because the result of a uniform obedi